In the beginning

From the time I was a small child, Latino culture has fascinated me. Growing up in a predominantly Hispanic school district, my appreciation only continued to grow with the opportunity to not only learn the Spanish language extensively, but to actually communicate with my peers who had always viewed me as "Guera." 

After five years of learning that beautiful language, I used it wherever I could until I couldn't find anyone to speak it with me anymore. Those were frustrating times.

As time went on, my Spanish got a little rusty, but my appreciation of all things Latino never, ever oxidized. So much so that I always imagined when I had children that they, too would be bilingual and love Latin culture as much as I.

Before my son was born, I had many, many ideas about how I would parent my children. I always imagined us speaking mostly Spanish in our home. I imagined us traveling the world together and stuffing as much into our eyeballs and earballs as we could. I also imagined a child that would talk more than me.

The day I found out I was pregnant, to say it was a surprise is an understatement. I had no degree, no job, and a partner who was less than thrilled to be a father. Still, something inside me told me that this child would be special, different, unique like me.

My first year as a mother blessed me with the ability to stay at home with my son and work on my first love before him, photography. Something about capturing every last smile possible from him brought such light and life back into my existence that it permeated all my thoughts.

Eventually, I enrolled in school and began my degree at Austin Community College. A Bachelor’s degree from the University of Texas was in my sights. I worked hard for 3 years, maintaining a 4.0 GPA each semester, gaining momentum in my mind to take me to my ultimate goal.

The year 2010 brought more tears than I was ready for. In April, my son, who, at the age of 2 had only uttered a handful of garbled words in English, was diagnosed with developmental delays. His father was incapable of accepting a child who was not “normal,” left without telling us one day. Thus, I became a single mother the day before my first final of summer school.

Over the years, I have tried my best to teach him as much Spanish as I could, often yelling orders at him in my second language to emphasize that I was serious. It worked. Something about the word “ahorita” carried more weight  than “right now.” As it should.

I managed to make it through 2010 on my own. Then in 2011, the hammer came down. After a series of tests, my son was diagnosed with autism. The “A” word was never okay with me, but I needed it to get him the help he needed in school. So began my journey into learning a whole new language: Tristan’s.

So, here is a little throwback to me and that little guy, before and after he came out of my body.

who would have ever thought this would make me so happy? from Janelle Matous on Myspace.